SMMA 43

Chapter 43

Ihan tucked the permit to leave carefully into his robes, holding it as though afraid someone might snatch it away.
Both Professor Garcia and the Skeletal Headmaster thought the same thing at once:

“No one’s going to take that from you…”

“Are you feeling well enough?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then, since you’ve received your rewards, it’s time for punishment.”

“……”

Ihan stared at the Headmaster in disbelief.

The Headmaster tilted his skull as if in sorrow.
“Do not look at me that way. It pains me too. But rules are rules.”

“That’s a lie,” Ihan thought grimly.

By all appearances, the Headmaster was enjoying himself.

“And to be clear,” the skull continued, “you are not punished for attempting to leave without permission. The sin lies in being caught.”

“……”

So—as long as he hadn’t been caught? Ihan grit his teeth. The words “Then should I have stood by and watched Professor Garcia get cut down?” rose up in his throat, but he swallowed them back. Arguing with an instructor had never ended well in all history.

“Endure it. Endure…”

“Day breaks now. Until the next dawn, stay in the disciplinary room and reflect on how not to be caught again.”

With that, the Headmaster tossed a book into Ihan’s arms. It was bound in black leather without markings, emanating an eerie air.

“What’s this?”

“So you don’t grow bored in confinement. Read it if you wish.”

Ihan’s face flickered quickly with doubt: “Can I trust this?”

The Headmaster’s grinning teeth clinked. Suspicion first—it was the trait of a wise student. He was pleased.

“Take him away.”

Summoned undead seized Ihan by the arms and carried him off.

From morning till the next, Ihan would be interned in the Punishment Chamber.

Step after step—they went down stairs, along a stone hall, down more stairs again, through another hall. Perhaps a dozen times or more it repeated. Blindfolded, Ihan knew he would never have remembered the route anyway.

Clang!

The door shut. Alone, Ihan surveyed his quarters.

To his surprise, it looked little different from a private dormitory room. Instead of sunlight, artificial lamps flickered, giving the place a dusky feel.

“So this is a punishment room? Not so bad.”

In fact, he could live here weeks, he thought. As a graduate student, he’d lived packed with others in cramped quarters harsher than this. In comparison, this was luxury.

He resolved that if he met Nillia later, he would tell her: “The punishment room wasn’t much at all.” Whether she agreed was another matter.

“—Ihan, of House Wadanaz.”

“?”

The stiff voice of an undead droned from beyond the door.

“Take this.”

The slot beneath opened wide. A great basket slid in.

Inside it—freshly baked bread, roasted lamb seasoned with pepper and salt, buttered apples glazed with sugar, fried eggs, warm biscuits still steaming with almonds, chocolate, and spice.

Ihan blinked.

“What…?”

Too rich for a prison meal.

“Gift from Professor Garcia,” croaked the undead.

“Ah… Please thank him.”

“Not finished. Take more.”

“Wait—no, stop—”

Basket after basket tumbled inside. How could he eat it all in one night?

Thankfully, the next bundles were filled with preserved treats: chocolate wrapped in foil, caramel drops, roasted peanuts with salt, boxes of crisp wafers and tea leaves, bottles of apple and orange juice.

“Must not have known my taste… so he simply gave everything.”

With a sigh of gratitude, Ihan set aside the baskets. His punishment chamber, if anything, had become a feast hall.

Brewing tea, he sat with sugared milk swirling in his cup, sipping and thinking.

The clash with Imperial zealots returned to his mind. Deadly still, and yet—he marvelled at himself for staying as calm as he had.

“That must be thanks to Alarron’s teachings.”

Had Alarron been beside him, he would surely shout: “I never taught combat instincts or spell cunning!” Yet, unknown to his mentor, Ihan did possess a natural talent for combat. Other professors already suspected it.

“Thank you, Alarron.”

He cast Lesser Manipulation.

“Move.”

The quill pen lifted and swept the air smoothly. Its elegance alone astonished him.

He next enchanted a steel bead. It spun through the air, a circle nearly perfect etched in its path.

“Volady… insane though you are, you were right. Experience is the greatest teacher.”

Indeed, Ihan’s power had magnified. Fighting zealots had raised his mastery far more than any classroom drills.

“A few more battles like that, I’ll become Archmage—or die before then.”

Setting down the bead, he did not feel regret. Even recklessness bore fruit.

But his thoughts turned to swordplay—recalling the duel with their leader.

Alarron had taught: learn from every fight, win or lose. Ihan followed it now, dissecting the memory.

“That was never real swordsmanship…”

He had poured mana excessively, blindly, battering in brute force. That was no art—it was madness. Luck alone had spared him. His blade had even shattered.

True bladesmen, Alarron had said, condensed mana carefully, weaving aura (ore) into steel. Ihan’s attempt had resembled only reckless fuel rather than refined aura.

“Whatever that was, I’ll not use it again. Lest I end up in some newspaper headline: ‘Fools Who Died Stupidly This Year.’”

Draining the last of his tea, his gaze fixed on what remained—the black leather book.

“Should I open it?”

Was it gift or trap?

Gift—perhaps the Headmaster, though cruel in form, pitied him for risking life to save the professor, giving a token in apology.
Trap—after all, the Headmaster was no man but undead, devoid of human empathy. And hadn’t he looked delighted to toss Ihan inside?

“Feels more like a trap.”

Still, uncertain, he slid it aside.

Then—

Shhhk—

“!?”

At his touch, the black tome sprang open.

Letters writ therein leapt and writhed alive, wrapping around his fingers and burrowing in.

“!!!”

It was as if knowledge were hammered straight into his skull.

Confused, agonized, Ihan understood at least this much: the book was transmitting a spell.

His mouth opened of its own accord.

“Gonadaltes’ Nimble Step!”

Pop!

The inheritance ended, and the tome snapped shut as if nailed closed. Ihan tugged but could not force it open again.

“What kind of book is this?”

Clutching his aching temples, he sifted through the knowledge—an arcane imprint, precise. The spell of “Gonadaltes’ Nimble Step” painted vividly across his mind: incantations, gestures, all.

Castable? Not yet. Knowledge, yes—but practice remained his part.

“A tome that forces magic into you…”

And the name alone revealed it—crafted spell of Gonadaltes himself.

Why bestow it this way? The Headmaster could teach him directly.

“Because he is insane,” Ihan decided at once. “Professors always go mad in the end.”

What Ihan could not know—Gonadaltes dared not teach one-on-one. Too many would whisper of corruption: the lunatic Archmage, breaking pupils in secrecy again. This was his compromise.

“Feet, wrinkle the earth. Feet, wrinkle the earth. Feet, wrinkle the earth…”

With nothing better to do, Ihan recited endlessly.

Though he claimed, “I am not greedy for magic,” clearly he was obsessed.
Ordinary freshmen sought games when idle—only Ihan sought study.

Thump thump thump—

“…?”

A knocking came on the wall.

He froze.

Again—thump thump thump.

He pressed his ear to the stone. Clear. It was no illusion.

Cautiously, he rapped in return. Silence a moment. Then, a low husky voice:

“…Can you hear?”

“Yes.”

“What year are you?”

“I’m new this term.”

“Iron. You suffer much.”

“Iron?”

In the academy, “Iron” was the title of a first-year. [Footnote: Students were ranked per year by metals—Iron (1st), Copper (2nd), Silver (3rd), and Gold (4th).]

“And you?”

“Gold.”

Gold—sign of a fourth-year.

Ihan stiffened. To have a senior locked next door… shocking.
“What crime must a fourth-year—though I suppose I have no right to ask.”

Self-correction came swiftly. Planning escape and failing, he was not one to judge.

“What brought you to punishment? Rowdy dorm brawl?”

“No.”

“Then theft from your peers?”

“No. Tried to escape.”

The voice chuckled darkly.
“Quick one, aren’t you? A week in, and already a breakout? Must’ve gone to the mountains, eh? That’s where they always get trapped—they forget the outer walls.”

“I did not go to the mountains.”

Pause. Silence. Then—
“You… went underground?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive. To even perceive it. Yet beware—down below is a trap. Touch one item, the alarms ring. And the Keeper—he’s a monster born for detection. What caught you?”

“Nothing.”

“…Nothing?”

“Yes. I passed through to the tunnel and was outside. Got caught on the other end.”

Silence transpired… then breathless disbelief.

To know of the tunnel after mere days in school was extraordinary. To evade its traps and the Keeper—unthinkable. And still, to escape outside?

“What are you?” the senior thought. “A newborn freshman—?”

“Then why were you caught?”

“I was on a wagon. Imperial zealots attacked. Fighting, the Headmaster saw me.”

“……”

The senior on the far side of the wall was thunderstruck into silence.